Love Games

Twenty - five: Lost in thoughts of you

The ocean roars in the background, its relentless rhythm echoing the pounding of my heart.

I'm covered in sand, my hair matted and my face streaked with tears and dirt.

I feel utterly defeated; my spirit crushed by the weight of what I've just witnessed.

I drag myself forward, each step a monumental effort, my legs barely supporting my weight.

The world around me is a blur, the stars above spinning in the night sky.

I can't think, can't process, can't do anything but keep moving, keep dragging myself along, not knowing where I'm going or why.

Exhausted beyond belief, I collapse to the ground, my body finally giving out.

I lie there staring up at the sky, my mind blank, my heart shattered.

The night closes in around me, the darkness swallows me whole as I finally allow myself to collapse, the full horror of what's happened washing over me like a tidal wave.

And in that moment, lying there on that cold, unforgiving ground, I realise that nothing will ever be the same again.

I stumble through the darkness, my body still shaking from the fear and exhaustion of running.

My mind is a chaotic swirl of emotions - fear, grief, confusion - but through the haze a distant memory emerges.

A memory of a place I haven't visited in years, a place that, despite everything, might offer the refuge I so desperately need.

The coastal house.

My grandmother's house, the one she left us when she died, is my last tangible link to her.

Our relationship was warm and loving; she wasn't just my grandmother; she was a dear friend and mentor.

I cherish the memories of baking cookies together and making caramelised milk every night - her special remedy to help me sleep.

It's been ten years since I last visited her, and when she died it felt like a part of me went with her.

I miss her deeply every day.

We shared so much more than just our looks; our bond was deep, marked by shared passions and an understanding that went beyond words.

Yet I can't help feeling that my grandmother had secrets that no one else ever knew.

The house, in its quiet way, became a refuge for me in difficult times, a place where I felt protected and close to her.

I force myself to climb up to the road, the rough terrain cutting into my feet, the muscles in my legs aching with every step.

The beach fades into the background, replaced by the narrow, winding road that leads to the house. It's a road I've only travelled a handful of times, yet every twist and turn feel eerily familiar.

My heart beats faster with each step, a mixture of anticipation and fear tightening in my chest.

I don't know what I expect to find there, or why I'm even going, but I keep moving forward, driven by a sense of purpose that I can't quite explain.

As I walk, the night grows darker, the stars above obscured by thick clouds that seem to swallow the moonlight.

The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed, a constant reminder of the ocean that lies just out of sight.

My footsteps echo in the silence, the sound unnervingly loud in the otherwise quiet night.

The road twists and turns, each bend bringing me closer to the house, closer to whatever is waiting for me there.

As I walk, memories flood back, vivid and overwhelming. I find myself lost in thought, remembering the last time I saw my grandmother.

Her once stern face, etched with years of wisdom and experience, had softened with age, the lines on her face telling of a life well lived. Yet despite the years that had weathered her, her voice remained sharp and clear, a reminder of the strength she carried even in those final days.

I remember the way she looked at me, her eyes still bright with a knowing gleam, as if she had so much more to say, so much more to teach. Her presence, even as it faded, left a lasting impression on my heart.

The path becomes steeper and I have to push myself to keep going. My breath comes in ragged gasps, the exhaustion from earlier catching up with me.

My clothes are still damp with sweat and sand, clinging uncomfortably to my skin, but I barely notice. All I can think about is the house, the beacon at the end of this long, winding road.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I round the last bend and see it.

The house.

It sits on a small cliff overlooking the sea, its weathered walls and sagging roof barely visible in the darkness.

The sight of it brings a strange mix of emotions - relief, sadness and a touch of fear. It's exactly as I remember it, and yet it feels different, more imposing, as if the years of neglect have made it a stranger to me.

I pause for a moment, staring up at the house, trying to find the courage to take the final steps.

The wind picks up, ruffling the overgrown grass around me, carrying with it the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore.

I shiver as the cool breeze cuts through me, but I don't move.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I'm standing still, caught between the urge to run and the need to face what lies ahead.

I take a deep breath and force myself to move forward, one foot in front of the other, until I'm standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door.

The wood creaks under my weight as I climb, each step a reminder of how much time has passed since I was last here.

The door looms before me, the paint peeling, the once vibrant colour faded and dull.

My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts.

What if it's exactly the same on the inside? What if it's different? What if I find something I don't want to see?

But there's no turning back now. I turn the knob and push the door open, the hinges groaning in protest.

The air inside is stale, thick with the smell of dust and old memories.

I step inside, the floorboards creaking under my feet as I cross the threshold.

The house is silent, the darkness pressing in around me, but I can almost hear the echoes of the past, the ghostly remnants of a life that once filled these rooms.

The relentless buzzing in my pocket finally breaks through the haze of my thoughts. I fumble to pull out my phone, my fingers numb with cold and anxiety.

Glancing at the screen, my heart sinks at the sight of several missed calls and a barrage of messages.

My hands tremble as I navigate through the notifications, my mind already preparing for the worst.

The first message that catches my eye is from Emma. Her words are desperate, filled with urgency and fear:

" Where the hell are you, Sarah? Did you hear what happened? Dave's been killed. Nobody knows who did it. It happened just a few metres from the bar. Call me back as soon as you get this. We need to find out what's going on. "

The message feels like a punch in the gut.

My breath catches in my throat and I can't help but feel a wave of panic wash over me.

The reality of Dave's death, which I had only partially grasped before, comes crashing down on me with a new, unbearable weight.

I can barely process the fact that someone took their own life, right there, so close to where I had been.

The fear and confusion that had driven me to this house suddenly felt like a cruel twist of fate, as if the universe was playing a macabre joke on me.